Poor Pietro Molini! never did driver give more cheering halloo to four-footed beast! or with spirit more elate, deliver in the drawling patois of his native paesi, some ditty commemorative of Northern liberty! Honest Pietro! thy wishes were contained within a small compass! thy little brown cur, snarling and bandy-legged--thy raw-boned steeds--these were thy first care;--the safety of thy conveyance, and its various inmates, the second. To thee--the most delightful melody in this wide world, was the jingling of thy horses' bells, as all cautiously and slowly they jogged on their way:--the most discordant sound in nature, the short husky cough, emitted from the carcase of one of these, as disease and continued fatigue made their sure inroads. Poor simple Pietro! his only pride was encased in his breeches pocket, and it lay in a few scraps of paper--remembrances of his passengers. One and all lavished praise on Pietro! Yes! we have him again before us as we write--his ill-looking, but easy carriage--his three steeds--the rude harness, eked out with clustering knots of rope--and the happy driver, seated on a narrow bench, jutting over the backs of his wheelers, as he contentedly whiffs from his small red clay pipe--at intervals dropping off in a dose, with his cur on his lap. At such a time, with what perfect nonchalance would he open his large grey eyes, when recalled to the sense of his duties, by the volubly breathed execration of some rival whip--and with what a silent look of ineffable contempt, would he direct his horses to the side of the road, and again steep his senses in quiescent repose. At night, Pietro's importance would sensibly increase, as after rubbing down the hides of his favourites, and dropping into the capacious manger the variegated oats; he would wait on his passengers to arrange the hour of departure--would accept the proffered glass of wine, and give utterance to his ready joke. A King might have envied Pietro Molini, as---the straw rustling beneath him--he laid down in his hairy capote, almost between the legs of his favourite horse. To do so will be to anticipate some years! Yet we would fain relate the end of the Vetturino. Crossing from Basle to Strasbourg, in the depth of winter, and descending an undulated valley, Pietro slept as usual. Implicitly relying on the sure footedness of his horses, a fond dream of German beer, German tobacco, and German sauerkraut, soothed his slumbers. A fragment of rock had been loosened from its ancient bed, and lay across the road. Against this the leader tripped and fell. The shock threw Pietro and his dog from their exalted station. The pipe, which--whether he were sleeping or waking--had long decked the cheek of the honest driver, now fell from it, and was dashed into a thousand pieces. It was an evil omen.